Long Lost Lives
by SpellCleaver
Summary: What if Aedion Ashryver, wanting to see the downfall of Erilea's most notorious assassin, had gone to Celaena Sardothien's trial only to see his long lost cousin and Queen of Terrasen in chains? Spoilers for The Assassin's Blade, and pretty much every book in the series. ON HIATUS
1. Long Lost Cousins

**This is my first TOG fanfic, and I only finished the series so far recently. But I loved it, and there were so many ideas for an alternate plotline my mind was crammed with, that this was born. I suggest you don't read it if you haven't read The Assassin's Blade as well as the rest of the series, or it might not make sense. I'm not sure how far I will take this storyline.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Celaena Sardothien, or any characters in the phenomenal Throne of Glass series. They, and most of the dialogue in this chapter at least, belong to Sarah J. Maas.**

* * *

It was enough of a struggle for Celaena Sardothien to ignore the dozens upon dozens of guards in the room, stationed in every slightest nook and cranny; every window; every door; almost behind every seat that the jury sat in. Did they not feel uncomfortable with their overbearing guards breathing down their necks? she wondered. Did they not trust the chains of their famed Adarlanian steel to hold her, or did they think she would evaporate into shadows, and slit their throats with all the arrogance of a Queen passing down a sentence to a common criminal?

A Queen of Shadows. She smirked. She liked that.

It was enough that she had to bear the heated stares of those hateful Lords of Adarlan, who had watched, uncomplaining, as their King went and slaughtered their unthreatening neighbours for nothing more than the thrill of power. It was enough that Sam Cortland was dead, and it was all her fault.

But she had to look this hateful man, her enemy, in the eye, and plead guilty, or not guilty.

The King of Adarlan was much as she remembered from that one visit in her childhood: cold, threatening, unyielding, and with an intense gravity that had people shying away from him, just because he seemed to fill the room with him aggressive demeanour.

She couldn't look at him. Couldn't meet his hard gaze with her own incriminating irises. Even now she was drowning in the past as she heard screams of Terrasen's people from nine years ago, and smelt the smoke drifting over the meadows. No. She couldn't look at him. To look at him would be to break and fall to her knees before him, as so many nations had done before her.

She felt his chuckle before she heard it, a low rumble that vibrated deep in her chest and rubbed together two stones to release a spark of defiance.

"I didn't believe the rumours until now," the king said, "but it seems the guards were not lying about your age."

A scream developed in her throat and scraped her vocal cords, desperate for her to let it out. She clenched her jaw. She wished she could move to cover her ears, but the manacles were too tight.

"How old are you?"

She kept her mouth locked shut. Sam was gone. No act of compliance or hatred could ever bring him back.

"Did Rourke Farran get his claws in you, or are you just being wilful?"

She suppressed a shudder at the image of Farran's leering, scarred face grinning wickedly as he inspected her like a pig for slaughter. She remained silent.

"Very well, then," the king said, evidently unfazed by her lack of answer. He sifted through the papers, the rustling the only sound in the stark room. "Do you deny that you are Celaena Sardothien? If you do not speak, then I will take your silence for acquiescence, girl."

Still she said nothing.

"Then read the charges, Councillor Rensel."

A dutiful voice began to drone. "You, Celaena Sardothien, are hereby charged with the deaths of the following..." she zoned out as he read through her entire bloody history. Arobynn had never missed a chance to increase her notoriety, and after every successful kill he spread the word that Adarlan's Assassin had struck again. And now, after so many years of luxury that came from blood money, her right to that title would be the signature on her death warrant. She realised vaguely that the man had stopped talking. "Do you deny any of the charges?"

She controlled her breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

"Girl," said the councilman. "we will take your lack of response to mean that you do not deny them. Do you understand that?"

She didn't even bother to nod. She was fully prepared to spit on their pristine marble floor when another voice spoke up. "You are required to answer, Miss Sardothien."

The new speaker stumbled over her name. His voice was low and soft.

And utterly familiar.

She didn't move her head, but her eyes snapped up to meet identical replicas of themselves. She didn't spare the king a glance, zooming straight in on the bob of bright hair sitting to his left.

 _Aedion Ashryver._

Her cousin had changed. Gone was the surprisingly compassionate companion who had been her only peer she was friends with at nine years old. In his place was a hulking man of muscle and sinew, eye blue glass marbles shot through with strings of gold. He surveyed her with shallow indifference, but she analysed his expression further and saw shock and desperation writ there for her to see.

"Then I will decide your sentence," the king growled. For a moment she felt dizzy, before she understood the magnitude of the chance she'd just lost. Her cousin had given her a chance to beg for mercy, to survive, and in her shock she had missed it.

Though it was debatable whether she would have taken it anyway. Sam was dead. Her beloved cousin was a slave under the king's yoke. What was there for her to live for?

Footsteps sounded against the floor, the weight of which meant that she knew who it was instantly, even before the king reached her chair. "Look at me." She remained staring at his fancy leather boots, soaked with the blood of a continent. "Look at me." Should she? A final act of defiance. It was too tempting to let up, in her desperate situation. " _Look at me._ "

Celaena Sardothien, once called Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, raised her head and looked the King of Adarlan in the eye.

She knew those dark eyes; she knew that weathered face. He had so often frequented her young nightmares after the banquet where he planted a worm of dark magic in her mind and almost caused her to self-combust. But now he wore no crown.

The impulse to flee was so unfamiliar that it was a moment before she recalled what it was, last felt on the night she abandoned Lady Marion for dead, had lost the Amulet of Orynth, and Terrasen had fallen.

 _I need to get away._

"Do you have any last requests before I announce your sentence?" He grinned triumphantly. Somehow, despite the protection of all the walls Arobynn had taught her to build, he knew he terrified her.

As he began to walk away, that rebellious fire flared up for what might be it's last time. "I do," she called out in a hoarse voice. She ignored her cousin, so she didn't have to analyse his expression, and focused solely on the king. She smiled her last darkly chaotic smile. " _Make it quick._ "

It was a challenge and he knew it.

"Oh?" He turned to face her and the cold of his gaze instantly put the fire out. "If it's an easy death you desire, Celaena Sardothien -" even in her peripheral vision, she saw Aedion flinch "-I will certainly not give it to you. Not until you have adequately suffered."

Everyone held their breath.

"You, Celaena Sardothien, are sentenced to nine lives' worth of labour in the Salt Mines of Endovier."

* * *

 **What did you think? What do you think Aedion will do?**


	2. Long Lost Acquaintances

**I'm honestly surprised how many people reviewed. I know this fandom is quite small compared to others, so I was absolutely blown away. It made my day. :)**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own any characters, lands, dialogues, or anything else from the Throne of Glass series. Everything belongs to Sarah J. Maas.**

* * *

Aedion Ashryver, Wolf of the North, was completely, undeniably, thoroughly and utterly gobsmacked.

He resisted the urge to rub his eyes, knowing it would only look suspicious on his part. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself, or someone might notice the similarities between himself and the teenage girl standing proud and arrogant in chains.

Gods, they were similar.

Her striking gold hair of many colours was roughly cut short and ragged, tangled with blood, mud, and other unspeakable things. She was taller, leaner, and (naturally) older than when he last saw her, and it was like looking into a window to the past, from when she and he would come home dirty from playing outside in the famously beautiful but rough Terrasen landscape. Except the image was distorted, with scars of all shapes and sizes consuming her filthy pale skin, a testament to her violent lifestyle. He'd come the this meeting having heard the rumours of Celaena Sardothien's youth and hoping to possibly save a young misguided girl from a cruel end; instead he'd found a much more valid reason to fight for her freedom.

A freedom that was now being compromised by her stubborn silence. Trying to keep his voice level in his desperation, he intoned "You are required to answer, Miss Sardothien." Her name felt unnatural as it was dragged across his tongue and he wondered if it was evident how difficult it was for him to say.

She froze.

It was a tiny movement, so minute that even the Lords of Adarlan who were gazing at her hungrily probably didn't notice it. But Aedion did, because he was expecting it.

Her eyes flicked, an infinitesimal motion, to meet Aedion's.

The gold rims turned to wildfire. Rings of fire with the blue shadows waiting behind them. He imagined a million thoughts and questions cramming her head, but she schooled her face in an indifferent expression, and she revealed nothing.

Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, the beloved cousin he'd lost, didn't speak.

And a moment later he felt the consequences.

The King of Adarlan now stood before her, commanding her to look at him... And she looked, but by some strange miracle he didn't notice the stunning irises that screamed who she was, and why he should kill her... And then he was walking away, but Aelin's voice was calling him back, spitting out the masochistic words _Make it quick..._ And then the King was smiling at his arch nemesis (though he didn't know it) and was saying something of undeniable cruelty to her... and then the final sentence had fallen onto Aedion's ears like a dropped anvil and he fought not to cry out.

 _Nine lives' worth of labour in the Salt Mines of Endovier._

Nine lives' worth of labour.

In _Endovier_.

Where no one survived for more than a month.

And then Aelin was being led back out and everyone was rising and Aedion was expected to rise with them.

So he did, all the while staring at the door and vowing to rescue his Queen before it was too late.

* * *

"Thanks a lot, Chaol. We missed the trial."

"How is that my fault? Besides we got here in the end. We're still allowed to see her."

"That's beside the point."

"Then what _is_ the point?"

Disjointed snippets of bickering and banter roused Celaena from her half-slumber. The floor of her temporary holding cell wasn't comfortable enough for her to fully embrace sleep, and she was already feeling the effects of sleep deprivation. She blearily cracked open her left eye to make out the figures of two young men standing in front of her and staring through the bars at her. She let her training wipe away the cobwebs in her head, and waited as her vision cleared to distinguish the men's individual features.

The one on the left was clearly in charge, with a mop of tousled ink black hair and clear blue eyes, like sapphire monocles. He was sweeping his gaze over her with amusement and a faint impressed air. However, she didn't particularly like the places where his gaze lingered.

The second man - looking a few years older than Celaena herself, like his companion - had chestnut-brown hair that fell down to his ears and around his neck, framed a chiselled face set with copper-coloured eyes that were dark in the dim lighting of the prisons. His gaze, in contrast to the blue-eyed man's, was analytical, and he surveyed Celaena like she might be an actual threat.

Good. It would be mortifying to lose all of her notoriety in a few unlucky days.

 _"You're_ Celaena Sardothien?" The first man blurted out. His friend looked faintly embarrassed and Celaena just glared at him coolly. Her mind was ticking. She knew these people from somewhere...

"Evidently." She replied in a clipped tone. A set of golden-brown eyes narrowed. The second man elbowed the first, but it did nothing to dissuade him from speaking.

"Have I met you before, _Miss Sardothien?_ " He clearly didn't believe her to be the assassin, not for one moment. She sighed. When would her age stop convincing people of her inadequacy?

But where had she seen them before?

It came to her when she saw that flirtatiously insolent look cross the first man's face. If she were to close her eyes, she could see pictured behind her eyelids that night, with circles of dancing girls she'd been pulled into, Sam's honest face with his lips shaping the words _I care what you think of me,_ and the four mysterious noble men who'd come in at three am wearing masks.

She was certain that this was the one who'd asked her to dance, and the other was the companion who'd held the sword.

She leaned forward. "My name is Wind." She whispered, though the sound was smooth and clear in the confined space. She saw him tilt his head as the memory resurfaced. "And Rain. And Bone and Dust. My name is a snippet of a half-remembered song."

His head, which had been dropped in thought, snapped up again as the pieces clicked together.

"I have no name," she continued, directly quoting what she'd said to him that night. "I am whoever the keepers of my fate tell me to be."

He smiled at her then, but it was an echo of the smile he'd given her. "I thought you were from Melisande," he admitted candidly. She saw his friend's eyes widen as he remembered what they referred to, and realised what they were talking about. He squinted at Celaena, no doubt some dark sinister reason for why she'd been at the celebration that night brewing behind his shining eyes.

She leaned back again. "Many people think many things about me," she countered cryptically. It only appeared to intrigue the blue-eyed man. That one, she decided, had a burning curiosity, and seemed unafraid to wander into troublesome topics. So different from his friend, who seemed perfectly willing to keep his horizons narrow, provided no unseen force stabbed him in the back. "That does not mean all of them are true."

"Where's your friend?" The sensible one asked. "The one who looked ready to rip Dorian's arm off for asking you to dance."

In the nanosecond before the boiling waves of sadness poured in at the thought of Sam, the name clicked in her mind. _Dorian. Crown Prince Dorian, The King's son._ She remembered him from when she was younger, and had still held the right to the title of princess.

Then she felt every pore, every cell, swamped with an agonising blend of guilt, grief, and anger. Her posture tightened significantly, like a thread of elastic from one of her dresses was suddenly pulled taut, almost to breaking point. Her jaw and lips trembled. Apparently her face showed something akin to murder, because both men took a hasty step back.

She lowered her face, stomping down the emotions and locking the memory of Sam up in a treasured part of her heart. When she tilted her chin up again, her face was blank.

The copper-eyed man wore the faintest of smiles, but it wasn't cruel. She wasn't sure what it was. Maybe he was pleased to see that even Adarlan's assassin had a heart?

The Prince - someone had been referred to as Chaol on the way in, so if this was Dorian, Chaol must be the other one - tapped his fingers against the bars of the empty cell opposite hers. A shudder tried to run through her with every dull metallic ring. "You know, I didn't believe you, a teenage girl, could possibly be _Celaena Sardothien, Adarlan's Assassin_ , but having seen your anger, and your scars, I'm forced to concede."

"Good to know," said a new voice, one that was low and familiar. All three people looked to see Aedion Ashryver standing a few feet away. How he'd gotten in without Celaena - or Chaol for that matter; he looked sharp - detecting him was a mystery. "Good to know that the court's evidence seems sufficient to you, Your Highness. Now if you please, your father, His Majesty, The King of Adarlan, requests yours and Captain Westfall's presence in his throne room."

To anyone else, it would look like her cousin was trying to intimidate the two into doing what he asked by using the extravagant titles. But Celaena didn't miss the slight glance her way. He was purposely giving her as much information his could about these people, in as inconspicuous a way as possible.

Dorian huffed, irritated. "Very well. I will grace my ever-patient father with my presence." He paused on his way out, the Captain almost bumping into him as he stopped in the doorway. "But General," _General?_ "You should know better than anyone that I am not afraid of my father."

Aedion didn't face him as he spoke, staring at the wall instead. "I'm well aware of that, Your Highness. But perhaps you should be. After all, your father has two sons."

No more words were exchanged as the two men exited the room. After their footsteps faded, Aedion fully turned to face his cousin.

"Aelin." He whispered. "You're alive." His eyes - identical to hers - roved over her face. "Thank the Gods."

* * *

 **I really need a beta for this story. Is anyone interested?**

 **Question: What ship would you like to see in this story. I ship Sam and Celaena, personally, which is the only one that won't work. I'll try to incorporate most but... (That isn't limited to just Celaena/Aelin ships. It includes things like ChaolxNesryn, DorianxSorscha, LysandraxAedion, etc).**

 **Tell me your thoughts on this chapter! Review?**


	3. Long Lost Hope

"Thank the Gods," her cousin repeated, putting out his arm and leaning against the bars of her cell to steady himself.

"The Gods are gone, Aedion." She replied softly. "There's no one left for you to thank."

He let out a mirthless laugh. "After eight years, _that's_ what you have to say to me?"

"Here I sit, there you stand, with a thousand miles and moments between." She shrugged nonchalantly, though there was nothing to be nonchalant about. "What is there to say?"

"I don't know! Have you forgotten pleasantries?"

"It's so nice to see you, my dearest cousin. I hope you're doing well, and that the prospect of my imminent death sentence isn't doing anything to ruin your day." She deadpanned with faux cheerfulness, a heaviness she wasn't used to feeling burdening her heart. He rolled his eyes.

"Your jokes aren't going to get you anywhere, Aelin." He said seriously. Celaena fought back a wince at his grim face. "So how are we going to have you escape?"

She froze. "What?" He couldn't be serious.

He tossed her an impatient glance. "Of course we're getting you out of here. Terrasen needs you." He leaned against the bars, making sure she kept eye contact with him. "I just got you back, Aelin. I'm not about to stand by and let you get carted off like so much meat to those dogs in the slave labour camp. We can finally go home."

Go home? Return to the place where she'd lost the Amulet of Orynth, where she'd lost _everything_?

And she wasn't stupid. She knew what Aedion was expecting her to do. Escaping Adarlan and travelling to Terrasen would lead to unveiling herself to her people - people who were no longer hers. It would include gaining people's support, giving hope. Fighting back.

Rebelling against Adarlan.

She swallowed. "Home." She echoed. The word reverberated through her mind, dredging up phantom feelings. A home with her parents. A home with her grandfather. A home with Sam.

All gone and turned to dust by Adarlan.

She looked up, resolving to debate on this later. One's decision's about life were often made in bias when one is faced with the prospect of nine lifetimes in a death camp. "First thing's first," she said. "Let's not get in over our heads. I have to get out of this gods-damned prison cell first."

He cracked a barely there smile. "How can the Gods damn something when they no longer exist?" She fought a scowl.

Nevertheless, he joined her in consideration. "The wagons they use to escort prisoners are generally accompanied by one guard per prisoner, but I'm sure they'll be a touch more careful with Adarlan's Assassin. I'll see what I can do."

She glared at him, not reassured in the least. " _You'll see what you can do?_ "

He nodded. "I have faith in you, Aelin. Can you have faith in me?"

The fact that he punctuated his first sentence with her old name made her stomach crawl. He had faith in Aelin, the girl he'd always protected - not Celaena.

But she met his eyes, so similar to her own, and willed him to look through her. Willed him to see her blood-stained soul, and her utter uselessness at anything besides killing. Her cousin continued looking at her, perfectly steady, with that same dependability she remembered from all those years ago. But he had changed as well - perhaps just as much as her.

She nodded. "Alright."

Seemingly satisfied with her answer, Aedion nodded once then turned and marched down the corridor with all the authority that befitted a _General_. She'd forgotten to ask him about the title the Crown Prince had addressed him with. She watched him go, wearing a mask of apathy.

Could she really do this? Could she really go back there? Not so long ago she'd stood on the beach in Skull's Bay, listening to the hissing of the sea and felt a cold breeze smelling of pine and snow, of a city still in winter's grasp. She'd stood there as the moon went behind a cloud and watched as the stars and constellations shone brighter, the Stag, Lord of the North, the brightest of all as he pointed out to her the way home. She stood there, basking in his light, but known in her heart that she could never return to the city with the opal tower.

She could never return to Orynth. To Terrasen.

She looked down at her hands. They were small and looked delicate - a pianist's hands, built for playing the pianoforte as beautifully as she did. But they were covered in countless scars and scrapes, painted with blue, black, red and purple like someone had squeezed berries over the pages of a book, the faint mapping of veins she could see just below the surface the words obscured. Her veins pulsed with power, the way a word pulses with meaning.

But magic was gone, and with it, any powerful advantage she might hold. Her veins held no corporeal power, like a word in a language you didn't speak might.

Celaena took a deep breath, surprised to find within her a thread of steel forming her resolve. She did not have to decide now. She just needed to trust Aedion and escape this life she'd thought she would be stuck with forever. Then she could continue from there.

It wouldn't free Terrasen. But it was a start.

* * *

Chaol Westfall scowled at his closest friend as he made a fool out of himself in front of the King. Once Dorian had been dismissed Chaol dragged him down the corridors of the glass castle, his sturdy boots colliding with the floor so hard a part of him half-feared he would punch right through the transparent material.

Once they were a good hundred paces from the throne room, Dorian yanked away from where the Captain had him by the collar of his shirt and scowled at his lifelong friend, resembling in that moment nothing more than a child whose just had his favourite toy wrestled away from him. "What was that for?!"

Chaol gritted his teeth. "As much as I hate to admit it, Aedion Ashryver-" He spat the name; that arrogant fool was the last person he'd give respect to. Whilst they were fighting for the same kingdom, Aedion was a traitor to his homeland. "-was right. Your father has two sons. You _know_ you're already out of favour with him due to the fact you prefer to read rather than fight. It's the most spectacularly stupid thing you can do, aggravating him. If you give him back talk, he might decide you're just not worth the effort of becoming the next king. And I would _really_ like it if I didn't wake up one day to find you with your throat slit and Hollin being addressed as the Crown Prince. You have an empire to inherit, Dorian. Grow up and prove you're worthy."

He supposed he was an idiot for not anticipating the round of droll, sarcastic clapping that followed his little - albeit passionate - rant. "Calm down, Chaol," Dorian drawled, his voice as slow as his applause. "As awe-inspiring and motivational as that speech was, I'm not in any immediate danger."

"This is exactly what I'm talking about!" Chaol practically yelled in response. He forcibly quietened his voice, steering himself and the prince into a more secluded part of the castle. "You never take anything seriously! I'd bet half my gold that if the glass castle were to smash and come toppling down you would continue reading your book amongst the onslaught. You need to take action. You need to-"

The words died in his mouth. He would try to call them back, but the sight that greeted him as they rounded a corner was filling every square inch of available space in his mind.

A man - Chaol thought he recognised him as one of his guards - lay on the floor, clearly dead. No person remained alive after _that_ had been done to them.

Half of the flesh on his face had been stripped away, bones jutting out of the mass of gore like stiff white fingers in the grip of rigor mortis. One fluid motion had sliced him open from nape to navel, the empty, bloody cavities inside showing where his internal organs had been removed. A hole was bashed in his skull, judging by the amount of damage around the area. The blood that polished the floor seemed too much to fit into the shrivelled husk of a body. Numerous smears were rubbed around the body and on the walls, but Chaol didn't know what to make of them.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Dorian's face drop from the mocking grin to a silent gasp of abject horror. Chaol met his eyes and set his mouth in a grim line.

A scream wrenched them back into reality a moment later when a serving girl - one of the ones often seen winking at Dorian, Chaol noted distantly - came round the corner at the opposite end of the corridor. The moment her eyes landed on the body she screamed, a high, heart-shattering scream, dropped her basket and fled like whatever had done this to the man might go for her. The basket rolled, the white clothes in it falling out and getting soaked in crimson once they landed amongst all the blood on the floor.

 _So much blood._

Chaol took a deep breath and forced himself to remain calm. He was trained for this. "Ress," he called, catching the attention of the guard on duty in this hallway. A pair of frightened but stoic brown eyes were turned to him, awaiting orders. "Raise the alarm. Alert the king of what happened, and gather the rest of the guards. Let's see what happened here." He turned to Dorian. "I really hope I don't have to tell you to leave."

"You don't," his old friend replied solemnly. To his surprise, Dorian left without an argument.

Chaol let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, bracing his palms on his thighs, before he looked back at the corpse. _What sort of monster would do this?_

* * *

 **If you have any requests for where you want the plotline of this to go, I'm all ears.**

 **I'll be introducing Nehemia next chapter!**

 **Tell me what you thought! Review?**


	4. Long Lost Royalty

**Hello! I am very very very very very sorry about the delay in this story. In all honesty, I just lost inspiration. Then I read Empire of Storms and started to get it back, and it all came to a head this morning when I had plot bunnies jumping around my head and character development/motivation blah blah blah. Anyway, I'm very sorry, but I've got the rough plot sorted out, and here's the next chapter.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own anything, save the plot. The characters, and the world, all belong to Sarah J. Maas.**

* * *

The image of that dead man seemed to be permanently scarred on the back of Dorian's eyelids as he walked away. Even so, as morbid as it sounded, he wished that was all he was thinking about. He wished that the only thing on his mind was what a difficult job Chaol would be having trying to track down the killer - or whatever you called a person who tore apart their victim before killing them. Dorian assumed it would be someone like that murderer one of the lords had dredged up for the competition: Bill Chastain, the Eye Eater, or something like that.

But no. Sadly, it was not the only thing on his mind, which was a whirlwind of confusion, suspicion, and recollection.

Celaena Sardothien had looked vaguely familiar, he couldn't help but muse. And not just from that alleged meeting all those months ago, at the festival with the party from Melisande. The fall of her straight bright hair, like sunbeams, the gold core to those fiery eyes that seemed to threaten to turn to flame at the slightest provocation, her haughty mannerisms. . . It was all very strange, just how much they reminded him of something he couldn't pinpoint.

He thought with a short laugh that she and Aedion Ashryver looked surprisingly similar, with their hair, and their eyes, and their. . . By the Wyrd, in hindsight they were identical. Right down to the arrogance lined in their faces, and the confidence with which they strutted.

It was almost funny, a criminal and a general looking like twins. Two sides of the same metallic coin. Perhaps they were related. Did Celaena Sardothien come from Wendlyn? That was where the Ashryver's originated from, wasn't it?

Shaking his head to clear a little space, Dorian let another thought shove that one aside. Namely, the implied death threat.

In all honesty, if it wasn't for the fact that both Aedion _and_ Chaol had warned him of his father's potential intentions, he wouldn't have taken it seriously. If it had just been the Wolf of the North jeering at him, Dorian would have merely dismissed it as bitter scaremongering tactics. In fact, he probably would have assumed that the King of Adarlan himself had instructed the general to plant that rumour, if only to terrorise his disrespectful son into watching his back whilst he showed his characteristic open disdain for his father's decisions. And if it was Chaol on his own, Dorian would have just waved it off as the hysterical ramblings of a concerned best friend turned paranoid Captain of the Guard.

But _both_ of them telling him he needed to watch his back?

Maybe he really needed to watch it.

Especially with an assassin currently being kept in the castle dungeons, prime for his father's employment and usage.

He swallowed surreptitiously, casting a swift, slightly shady glance over his shoulder at the thought, and shuddered with relief, feeling something in him unclench as he realised he'd passed out of the glass castle.

However, whatever cord that had loosened at the revelation was drawn taut enough to snap when he heard the familiar - not to mention dreaded - voice call "Your Highness!" with an eagerness that caused nausea to roll over in his gut with a sensation peculiarly similar to constipation.

He plastered a stiff, polite smile on his face as he turned to face the owner of said voice, resignation settling in a coil in his stomach. "Lady Kaltain," he greeted with faux cheer, gritting his teeth against the irritation as he gave a short but sufficient bow. When he straightened up, he did his best to look anywhere but her face, and his gaze landed on her companion.

The girl - or woman - looked about Dorian's own age, but that was where the similarities stopped. She held herself with a grace and purpose that his lazy posture could never imitate, and her features were fine and set - regal. Her skin was the colour of chocolate, which insinuated she was from somewhere near Fenharrow or Eyllwe, and bands of beaten gold encircled her wrists, her sandal-clad feet and ankles, and her brow, marking her as a relative of royalty at the very least. Her ivory dress was simple, and well fitting - a far cry from some of the more pompous and elaborate dress styles one saw in the heart of Rifthold. Two heavily muscled armed guards flanked her, laden with weapons, and scrutinised Dorian with an intensity that scared him.

For once, it only took Dorian a few moments to recall what his father had informed him: that Princess Nehemia of Eyllwe was coming to stay with them for a indefinite period of time to learn their culture and language better. "So she might better know how to serve her people," he remembered the King sneering.

Dorian hastily bowed again, this one much deeper and more respectful. He'd heard stories of Nehemia's bravery from some of the sporadic slaves from Eyllwe that came to work in the castle, tales of how she sacrificed everything for her people. Even if they were technically enemies, he had to admire her.

He could feel appraising eyes scorching the back of his head whilst he bowed, and he had the sinking feeling they weren't the guards'.

"Your Highness," he intoned, nodding politely at the Princess. She offered him a quick smile, a flash of startling white, and said something to him in return in Eyllwe.

He fumbled through his brain in an attempt to find his tenuous grasp of the language, smiling and nodding all the while even though, if he was honest with himself, he had no idea what she was saying. Finally his gaze slid to Kaltain with a desperacy that probably didn't befit a prince, but she didn't seem to mind, and brightened noticeably at the attention.

"Your Highness," she simpered. "As I'm sure you've heard, Princess Nehemia here is staying with us for a little while to understand our court." She said the word _Princess_ with a slight sneer, a faint stress of sarcasm lacing her voice. "Princess, this is His Royal Highness The Crown Prince Dorian."

Nehemia dropped into a curtsy, the folds of her dress brushing the polished stone floor like moonlight on water, just low enough to be acceptable, just shallow enough to be slightly mocking. Again, he had to admire her spirit.

He offered her his hand, and she shook it. When she released it she reached her fingers to his brow and brushed her fore finger over it in a strange pattern for a moment. He saw something reflected in her eyes before she pulled away, but he nevertheless dismissed it as a strange Eyllwe custom.

It couldn't be magic, after all.

Kaltain continued speaking, flicking a lock of raven hair over her shoulder in a manner that was so flirtatious Dorian was slightly sickened. "His Majesty requested I show our visitor around the castle, at the recommendation of Duke Perrington. Only, I'm afraid I don't speak Eyllwe particularly well. I always struggled with languages as a girl." She batted her long eyelashes and Dorian's stomach gave a lurch. "Would you mind accompanying us as translator? I would be _so_ grateful."

"I'd love to escort you two lovely ladies around the wonders of Rifthold," came a voice. It was accompanied by the rise and fall of echoing, heavy footsteps down the corridor. Dorian never thought he'd be grateful to hear Aedion Ashryver speak, but here he was, fighting the urge to kiss the ground the man walked on. "That is, provided it isn't too much of a bother?"

Kaltain's pretty face was the picture of disappointment for an instant, before it melted into that charming façade she always wore, the one that explicitly marked her as a gold digger. "Oh no, not at all, General," she replied sweetly, accepting Aedion's offered arm with only the faintest tinge of disgust marring her smooth features. "I'd love that." She looked back over at him, and caught Dorian like a bug in honey with her big eyes, stiff as a rod. "Won't you come with us, Dorian?"

He shook his head, slowly at first, then with more vigour, hastily stepping back towards the stairwell, for an instant not caring how rude he must seem. "No, honestly, I need to go. I'll see you at dinner, Your Highness," he addressed Nehemia. She gave him an imperial nod in return, a small smile playing about her lips, and Dorian had a sudden panicked moment where he thought she probably didn't know what he was saying.

But he was away before he could dredge up his language teachings, and reiterate his statement in her own language. She'd just have to make do.

* * *

Aedion scrutinised the Crown Prince's back as he strode down the corridor, and allowed himself a moment to chuckle internally over how little propriety Dorian had used when addressing the princess. Perhaps he thought he was being subtle about his ignorance of her language, perhaps not. Either way he'd made a fool out of himself.

He turned to their visitor. "My name is Aedion Ashryver, Your Highness," he introduced in the common tongue, bowing, and she nodded her understanding. She offered him her hand, and he shook it. The skin was calloused in all the places they would be from holding a sword. Aedion's eyebrows rose. Perhaps the rumours about her involvement with the Eyllwe rebels were true.

If she could help him get Aelin out, and they could join forces to battle the King. . .

Nehemia said something then in Eyllwe, as they continued walking, and Aedion's head shot up to cast her an apologetic look, indicating he hadn't been listening. Nehemia laughed softly, though seemingly without mockery, and Kaltain cast them both an irritated glance, like she couldn't be asked to escort them when she had no idea what they were saying. It softened into polite meekness once Nehemia and her guards were looking at her, but Aedion caught it and shot her the roguish grin that had contributed to his reputation as Adarlan's Whore.

Kaltain scowled briefly.

"I'm sorry, Your Highness," Aedion said to the princess in halting but adequate Eyllwe. He wasn't sure whether her gaze was disdainful or forgiving. "Could you repeat what you said?"

Aedion's knowledge was by no means insufficient when it came to linguistics. Rhoe Galathynius had hired only the best tutors to teach him and Aelin, and that included in languages. Though most travellers now spoke the common tongue, the cousins had worked hard at every language, fearful of ruining Terrasen's flawless reputation with the other nations. It had been a while since he learnt it, but he'd once been fluent, and even if he struggled to form sentences, he could understand them easily enough.

Which was why he met the princess's boldness with no small amount of surprise when she commented offhandedly in her home tongue, "I heard Celaena Sardothien was being held in the castle dungeons until she gets shipped off to Endovier." A slight spark of anger skipped in Nehemia's eyes, and Aedion understood why; the mention of one death camp surely ignited unwanted thoughts of the other one, where Eyllwe slaves were usually sent: Calaculla. "Could we perhaps visit her?"

Aedion froze, then glanced at Kaltain, who looked severely put out by her ignorance. "Why would you want to see her? She's just an assassin." He asked hesitantly, still in Eyllwe. Dorian and Chaol may be naïve enough not to notice the undeniable similarities between himself and Aelin, but Nehemia. . .

She was clearly too smart for it to go uncommented.

She huffed an exasperated sigh. "The greatest and most notorious assassin in all of Erilea. Why _wouldn't_ I want to see her? Besides," she added. "She'll probably make better conversation than all of you preening palace ponces, even if I do have to speak in the common tongue."

Aedion had no doubt that Aelin _would_ in fact be able to hold a conversation with her in Eyllwe, seeing as his cousin seemed just as cultured as she had been at age nine, but he didn't comment.

He couldn't take her down there; she could easily betray them to the King. And whilst it was clear that she hated the man with a passion, the rumours of her rebel involvement were just that: rumours. He couldn't risk his queen's life for a potential ally. . . "I'm not sure we'd be allowed down there." He said as a last resort.

The look she gave him clearly conveyed how little she thought of him in that moment. She tossed her braided hair; the gold woven into it clinked inconspicuously. "I am the Princess of Eyllwe," she said decisively, surprising Aedion by saying these forceful words in the common language. Her pronunciation was perfect, grammar completely natural. "I may go wherever I please."

And Aedion laughed to himself at the ruse she'd pulled. It was certainly a smart one, and once glance at Kaltain told him that she hadn't picked up on it.

Nehemia's eyes twinkled at she looked at him, with an eyebrow raised in question. Her guards stood stoic behind her. That was when it hit him: she was testing him to see if they could become allies in the war both of them were planning on stirring. She was evaluating his trustworthiness.

She'd purposefully revealed a secret to him; now he had to reveal a secret to her. And he wondered vaguely if she didn't already know who, exactly, the King held in his castle.

"Very well," he said in Eyllwe. Then he switched to the common tongue with a knowing smirk at Nehemia and shot at Kaltain, who still had no idea what was happening, "Let's head down then."

* * *

Aedion crinkled his nose as he descended into the dungeons, Nehemia and her guards in tow. Kaltain had left them alone, saying she had a horror of a headache coming on and that she needed to rest. The princess didn't flinch as she stepped into the dank and dark stairwell, nor as Aedion barked commands at the soldiers to let him past, conducting himself with his usual swagger that had people turning away with lowered eyes.

This time was no different. He strode through belligerently, right to the end where Aelin's cell was. His cousin looked like she'd been trying to get some sleep, curled up in a ball on the floor, but then he noticed how she ensured her head was in the patch of sunlight that shone through, and her gaze was fixed on the sky.

He wondered whether she would stay in that position right until sunset, until the constellation he knew she was looking for came out into the part of the sky she gazed at, and she would know the way home.

He didn't think either of them would get the chance to find out.

She looked up when she heard them come, and didn't react to the big burly guards that walked in front of them, nor the sight of Aedion, giving her a tight lipped smile. Even when she saw - and no doubt recognised - Nehemia, the only reaction she gave was a raising of one fair brow.

The two princesses surveyed each other through the bars, and for a moment Aedion forgot which one was in the cage.

Nehemia said softly, "Celaena Sardothien."

It wasn't a question. For a moment the hollow name hung in the air between them, like an object being held up to the light to be examined, only for the beholder to realise it was made of smoke. Aelin was the first to look away, glancing at her scarred hands, but not soon enough for any of them to miss the Wyrdmark which burned on her brow for a brief moment, before it faded again. The blue in Aelin's eyes dulled to a watery grey in the sudden dimming of the gold in them.

The cell was a small one, and was Aelin sitting on her cloak near the front. Nehemia kneeled and reached through the bars, and lightly rested her three fingers on Aelin's forehead. The guards didn't react to their princess' proximity to an assassin; perhaps Nehemia had actually planned this out. His cousin looked up, and her gaze clashed with Nehemia's.

The princess of Eyllwe, in her own tongue, very quietly, said, "Your eyes are so much prettier with the fire in them, princess. Don't let him put it out."

Aelin glanced down again, and Nehemia stood, retracting her hand. She didn't brush the grime from her dress before she swept out.

Aedion and Aelin shared a wordless look. Looking after her, they both knew they had found their first ally.

* * *

 **I rewrote this chapter, adding some things to what I published before, and adding Aedion's PoV onto the end rather than put it in the next chapter.**

 **What did you think? Review?**


	5. Long Lost Legends

**Thanks to everyone that reviewed, followed, and favourited! I'm sorry it took so long to update, but my wifi went really spotty, and I'm trying to aim for longer chapter anyway.**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing, the characters and world all belong to Sarah J. Maas**

* * *

Celaena dreamed that night.

She was wandering down the corridor, the lantern the shifting guards held clamped between her fingers. It had been a simple matter to slide the keys from the guard's belt when he got a little too close in an attempt to taunt her with quips of how she couldn't possibly be Adarlan's Assassin. Then once he looked down, eyes wide, when she purposefully clinked them together, she'd wrestled the lantern from his hand and used it to knock him out cold. Then she took his own dagger and slit his throat for good measure.

Now here she was, wraith-like in the ghostly light, her ragged slip of a dress looking like a nightgown worthy for a murdered ghost to haunt in. She wasn't sure what had happened to the suit she'd been wearing on the fateful night she'd gone to slaughter Farran and his ilk, whether he'd taken it off her to torture her, or she'd been handed over to the castle in her trusty clothing and the attendants there had stripped her of it. Either way, she was sure Arobynn would have it tracked down and recovered, if they hadn't burned it. She still remembered how much he'd paid for it. Wyrd forbid he lost his investment.

She slipped through the door with the other key she'd nabbed off the dead guard and sashayed out. The door swung shut behind her and she slowed the momentum as it closed, making sure the sound was nothing more than a muffled thump. She stalked through the moonlit corridors, footsteps a whisper of dust on the cold stone floors, and was astounded she didn't meet anyone. She climbed countless staircases, traversed seemingly infinite thresholds, until on a whim, she slowed in front of a seemingly unremarkable door.

Unremarkable, that is, save for the guards posted outside it.

Celaena stood in front of them for what seemed like a full minute, but time might be fluid in this dream. Sure enough, they didn't notice her. She even waved her hand in front of their faces and stuck her tongue out at them, and they didn't even blink.

So she did the only logical thing to do. Clutching her stolen dagger, she twisted the doorknob, and went in.

The door led to what looked like a suite, with several doors leading to different rooms. Celaena peeked in one to see a billiard room, then another to see a bathroom. But she felt that strange, otherworldly tug within her pull her towards another door, just as nondescript as the others, and she followed it, the grip on her dagger tightening with every step until her tendons stood out harsh and white on the back of her hand.

It was a bedroom she found herself in.

Her heart rate increased cautiously. Gods above, she knew Aedion - the old Aedion, at least, if she remembered correctly - would _kill_ her for being this. . . reckless. But it was a dream wasn't it? She couldn't get hurt. And if she was, she would just wake up safe - well, safer - and secure in her cell.

So she stepped forward. The door's hinged creaked in warning cry as it swung shut. She winced at the sound, then turned to examine them, loathe as she was to turn her back on the figure in the bed, seemingly asleep. But she examined them intently, and straightened up with an appreciative eyebrow raised. They were altered so they would squeal loudly upon entry. Smart man; not trusting people in the castle not to slit his throat in his sleep. Good move.

But no so good for her, she noted with dismay as, somehow, despite the guards' obliviousness to her presence, the man was stirring. As the sheets rustled she caught a glimpse of long, wiry limbs, then a dark head of hair shifting on the pillow. She moved over to stand a few metres from him and looked down to observe a pleasant set of features collaborating together to give him a nice sort of face, before grey eyes fluttered open.

Neither of them moved. His eyes - instantly alert, Celaena noted with approval - fastened on the lantern in her hand first, shedding light over the bedclothes. Then they lazily travelled up her beaten and bruised body to fix on her face. They narrowed in suspicion.

She gave him a smile of hers - not a reassuring one, but the one that she used to slant the other assassins in the Keep, that promised nothing but wickedness and ruthlessness. His eyes narrowed further.

He spoke first. "I, a common criminal, wake up in the middle of the night to find a tortured, ghostly woman standing over me with a lantern." He cocked a grin, and Celaena felt her lips respond in one, as he inquired, "Might I ask as to why?"

She didn't move, only brought her lantern up so she could further study his features. "Might I inquire as to why a common criminal is sleeping in a heavily guarded room in the palace?"

"Don't you already know, fair lady? You are, after all, clearly well acquainted with the place."

Lies. Lies and more lies, mixed in with some flattery. "Of course I know," she countered smoothly, fighting lies with lies. "I felt like hearing it from your point of view."

He gave a short bark of laughter, but eyed the dagger she still clutched in her hand. "Very well." He looked her dead in the eye. "I'm here as a part of the gods-awful competition that old tyrant-" he jerked his head towards the door "-is throwing to try and find himself a _Champion_. Someone who he can send to do his dirty work. I'm just one of many criminals dragged in from all over the empire to fight for the title. It's that or we're going back to whatever hellhole we were dragged from." He shrugged. "Now, can I ask your name?"

She shifted the arm holding her dagger, but maintained her easy going air. Nevertheless, the angle of the blade now meant it glinted in the light, and drew the man's attention down to it. He swallowed surreptitiously. "I have many names," she purred in reply. "Which would you like?"

He clearly got the sense she wasn't going to tell him, because he shot her another rueful grin. "Well, mine's Nox Owen, Lady of Many Names."

She nodded then, but was fairly certain some of her surprise shone through when she put forward, "Nox Owen? The thief from Perranth?"

"That's the one." He grey eyes glittered. "And the way you said it, suggests to me you're already from Terrasen."

"I might be," she replied coyly.

He laughed slightly, shaking his head. "Well, so long as I'm up, I think I'll nip to the toilet briefly." He stood from the bed, and she noted that he was slightly taller than her, and perhaps three years older at most. He tossed her another laughing look. "Will you still be here, or will you be gone by the time I get back?"

"I shall be wherever I please," she replied, and he chuckled, but left the room.

The moment he was gone, she felt the otherworldly instinct pull her towards the wall - one with a large tapestry on it. She stepped towards it, and studied the pattern of a woods, with a white stag and a woman in the centre. She had silver hair, and her head was tilted back to watch the stag. It was so skilfully woven that her hair seemed to ripple-

Had Celaena needed to breathe in this dream, she would have sucked in a breath. The tapestry was blowing gently in the wind.

 _But there was no wind._

She approached it, and observed that it was blowing outwards. She took hold of one side and pushed the folds back, and back, and back, until she found two vertical grooves that were connected in a crossbar just above her head-

 _It_ is _a door._

Without hesitation, she opened it. But before she went to step in, she glanced back.

She couldn't leave the entryway wide open. When Nox came back, he'd see it. So she dropped the tapestry, letting its heavy folds envelop her, and stepped through. She needn't worry about being locked in; it _was_ a dream, after all.

So she let the door slam shut, effectively locking her in, as she stepped into darkness.

* * *

Dorian wasn't sure _why_ his father had asked him to entertain Aedion Ashryver this morning, other than the fact that you'd have to be a fool to not notice how restless the General had been for the past few days, how much he'd argued against the suggested plans for taking more slaves from Terrasen to feed Endovier. Perhaps his father, having undoubtedly heard of both men's reputations for having the more. . . unorthodox fun at bars, was hoping that Dorian could get him to calm down in that way.

But if so, his father was clearly blind. Any idiot could see how much Aedion secretly loathed him.

"So, Prince," Aedion huffed finally, as they completed their seventh circuit of the rose garden. It was early spring, and the frost was only just starting to fade from the hedges. The flower themselves were nothing but small hard buds poking out amongst a circlet of thorns, some of them spun with cobwebs. Dorian had to admit to himself that he was only paying such attention to his mother's beloved gardens because it was that, or pay attention to the man beside him. "You seem oddly quiet this morning. Are you tiring of my company?"

Dorian winced as they stopped to stand by a fountain. Had he been that obvious? "Of course not," he drawled in response. "Perhaps I'm just slightly unsettled that this castle is currently playing host to Adarlan's Assassin." He ignored the eerie stillness Aedion suddenly conducted himself with, and barrelled on. "I mean, it's enough to put anyone on edge." He paused, then added, "You two look shockingly similar, you know? Are you related?"

The Wolf of the North said stiffly, "I don't know why you would think that."

Dorian laughed. "Seriously? The two of you could pass for twins. Maybe she's from Wendlyn. That's where the Ashryver's originate from, yes?"

Aedion nodded slowly. "Yes."

Dorian clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, we all have family members we'd prefer to deny are related to us." His lips twisted at the thought of Hollin. "Everyone."

"Perhaps," Aedion commented, and maybe the sly twinkle to his eye should have warned Dorian of the sudden subject change, but for some reason, it didn't. "Does that include Captain Westfall in that category? I know he must certainly hate being associated with his family. I'm sure it must be insufferable for him, having to arrange all the guard schedules to protect the nobles for this accursed competition, without having the added burden of his father visiting to place bets on it. Not to mention the doubtless coaxing he'll be subjected to in an attempt to get him back to- Anielle, was it?"

Dorian clenched his fists, suddenly finding himself with the urge to punch in the gleaming teeth that were bared in a cocky grin. "Shut up, Aedion," he snapped, for a moment forgetting propriety and speaking through gritted teeth, glaring at the general.

He had the nerve to laugh. "Calm yourself, _Your Highness._ We wouldn't want a reputation for violence to mar your father's so perfectly constructed empire." Was he imagining the faint sneer as he said that, like the words tasted foul? "Not to mention how few foreign ambassadors would be willing to offer their beloved princesses in a marriage alliance if they believed you would treat them foully." He _was_ speaking with bitterness! But why? The only reason Dorian could think of was the man's cousin Aelin, and she was dead by his father's indirect hand. Was he still wound up about that?

"My father has no need for marriage alliances."

"True. But I can't say I wouldn't expect him to take some noblewoman from the conquered country as a prize or hostage." _Nor could I_ , thought Dorian, and cringed out the thought. But, in all honesty, he wouldn't put such a thing past his father.

"If he couldn't rely on his armies to do it for him, I'm sure he would have bound me to princess Nehemia or Aelin years ago."

Aedion had gone very, very still, like a predator who sighted his prey. Or prey that had sighted its predator. "Terrasen would never have allowed it. Nor Eyllwe."

"I'm sure they wouldn't have," Dorian acquiesced. He waved a hand. "Shall we continue?"

Aedion cast a disdainful look ahead of the path, then back again. He shook his head, and started walking away. "Not that this hasn't been delightful, but I'm afraid I must take my leave, _Your Highness_ ," he injected as much sarcasm into the title as it was humanely possible. "Oh, and by the way," he called as he rounded a corner. "I was sorry to hear about Rosamund. I know you cared for her deeply."

He was gone a second later. Lucky for him.

A sudden wind, as tumultuous and haunted as his thoughts, suddenly ripped down the pathway. The head height bushes shuddered like they were in a gale and Dorian was thrown into one. The thorns sliced a deep, stinging gash in the back of his hand, but he didn't wince, because he wasn't present enough to do so.

Rosamund. . . His first love.

 _How_ dare _Aedion bring her up?_

But then he swiftly and methodically shut the pain away, as he had for the past eight months - there was no point in mourning her idiocy - and turned his mind to more pressing matters as the wind died down to nonexistence.

 _He had made it do so._

He took a shuddering breath as he examined his hands, the right one bright with blood. He couldn't have. . . He didn't. . . He _couldn't_ have done that. It was magic! Magic had disappeared! It was impossible!

So how had he done it?

He panted, though he'd done no strenuous activities. He glanced left and right, then tucked his hands behind his back and continued walking. Nowhere, anywhere - he had to get away.

He hadn't done magic. He _hadn't_. He _couldn't._

But he had a horrible sinking feeling as he walked away from the lane with the battered bushes, that the fact Aedion Ashryver was barely gone by the time the winds had tore through it, was lucky for him as well.

* * *

Despite the fact it was a dream, it was uncomfortable vivid. Celaena had always dreamed surprisingly clearly, her mind images as bright and blazing as the fires she'd accidentally summoned as a child, but she could _never_ have created the feel of the heat radiating from the metal lamp she held, nor the gentle sputtering of the candle in the moisture, nor the bone chilling damp and cold that clung to her skin like wet strands of hair, making her shiver.

She was sure that if she was doing this whilst awake, conscious, and fully in control of her limbs, she would have brought some useful marker with her, perhaps have swiped a few sticks of chalk from the attendants basket she saw back in Nox's room. But, this being a dream, she wasn't quite present in her own mind, and she hadn't thought of that.

A choice she regretted when she was faced with a divergence of the pathway, splitting into three doors. They all seemed to lead into darkness.

Celaena hesitated, and in that moment, the candle in the lantern flickered and finally guttered out. Snorting with disgust, she threw it aside, paying it no more heed even as it collided with the wall with an ear-splitting clang.

The ghostly wind or instinct that had enticed her down there blew towards the passage on the farthest right. Celaena peered into the shadows beyond it but couldn't distinguish anything that set her apart from the others.

She drew herself up and huffed her annoyance. Since magic had disappeared, the only ones possibly capable of drawing her down here in this way were the gods, if they saw fit. And how _dare_ they start playing games with her, after they'd abandoned Terrasen all those years ago? How dare they tell her where to go?

It was petty, worthless rebellion, but it made her feel better all the same.

So she set off in a defiant march, not towards the one on the far right, but on the far _left._ Let the gods make of that what they will. Let them call it blasphemy. She wouldn't care.

They hadn't cared ten years ago, when Aelin Galathynius was turned to ashes and dust.

The passage swiftly became darker and damper, and now she'd left the strange guidance behind she slowed her pace to avoid tripping. Her nose was attacked with the stink of sewage that had Celaena reminiscing on that ill-fated mission she and Sam had gone on, with the convoy from Melisande, and the slave traders-

 _No!_ She bit back a snarl. Anger, hot and fiery, clawed its way through her chest as she remembered the terrible thought she'd had in her long hours in the dungeons. _Arobynn betrayed them, Arobynn killed off Sam Cortland. . ._ Just to think her dead lover's name sent tears pricking in her eyes and shudders racking her hands.

Then she rounded a corner and the sight dispelled every other thought in her mind.

It was nothing remarkable. A sewer, without a doubt, with a narrow channel flowing through a tunnel, surrounded by rock, growing with lichen and algae. She turned her head to try to seek out the source of the faint light that filtered into the chamber, and her breath snagged in her chest as she caught sight of the gate that the sewage flowed out through.

Holy gods. They gave Nox Owen - a condemned thief and a competitor in this fanciful competition - chambers that connected to _this_? A way out? She laughed to herself at the idiocy. Nox was bright; he'd find it sooner or later. And when he did. . .

The king's face would be a sight to see.

Curious as to how she would have got out, she crept towards to sewage grate, the spaces between the bars just wide enough for her to wriggle through, but saw nothing but the moonshine off the Avery beyond. She picked up a stone and tossed it, listening intently for any muttered voices, or shifting armour. There was none. No guards then.

It hit her then, that she was planning an escape route she had no hope of using. There was no way she could get through the halls the way she had if she was awake, so why was she bothering with this part? It was a fools errand.

Sighing, in resignation, she trooped back up the stairs in the passageway until she found herself in the convergence of the three paths.

She glanced towards the one on the far right. She could still feel that otherworldly pull, wrapping its tendrils round her mind and tugging. And she _was_ curious as to what was down there. So she lifted her chin and let the breeze guide her, telling herself it was just to satiate her curiosity.

No other reason.

This passage was longer than the other. She went down so many stairs she wondered whether she would descend to the bottom of the earth, until a light emerged through the blackness ahead. She squinted, feeling her pupils dilate, but stepped forward.

It was a door.

It was a very nondescript door. There was nothing interesting about it, save for a single bronze knocker shaped like a skull. Nevertheless, she stood there, considering it, until a voice jarred her out of her thoughts, "Well aren't you going to go in?"

She screamed, and jumped back, trying to catch her balance on the damp floor. And stared.

The thing was _alive._ It's gleaming metal eyes glinted in an oddly human way and were (somehow; they weren't hollow) filled with far too much intelligence for it to sit calmly in Celaena's mind. She shuddered, and it made a peculiar rasping noise that sent shivers up her spine. It appeared to be chuckling.

"You're-" She swallowed her sticky words and tried again. "You're _alive_?"

The knocker seemed to eye her with amusement. _Oh dear gods,_ she thought. _That's something I never thought I'd think_. "My name is Mort, thank you very much for asking," he huffed. "And I'm not alive, no, just. . . living."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Who said it did?" Mort watched as she opened and closed her mouth wordlessly. "Go on in. She's waiting for you."

" _Excuse_ me?"

"She's been waiting for you for ten years, Princess," he continued, and seemed to take a sadistic amount of pleasure in the gasp of shock and terror his words ripped out of her. "What are you waiting for? Head in. After all," he added slyly. "She did save your life."

Celaena didn't let herself ponder that for a moment longer, violently yanking the door open and shoving her way through, heart pounding that one word through her circulation until it was tattooed on the inside of her skull.

 _Princess, princess, princess, princess._

She slammed the door, Mort's scratchy laughter still grating along her bones. She was so preoccupied with her racing pulse that for a moment she didn't take in where she was.

Then another beat passed and she pushed herself off the wall.

The floor was painted a swirling dark blue dotted with silver stars, whilst the ceiling was painted to reflect the earth, green and brown intermingling with the blue of lakes and rivers. Two chiselled sarcophagi were laid out in the chamber, one a man, and one a woman, both with faces so lifelike she could have sworn they were just sleeping. Her eyes skipped over the inscription at the bottom of the woman's figure - _Ah! Time's Rift! -_ and came to rest on the woman standing in the corner.

Light without a source streamed through her, as though she too, was here in a dream. She wore midnight coloured robes that fell to the floor and her eyes were a clear, pale blue. Her hair was a silver waterfall of ice and it shimmered as she shifted, revealed the pointed ears of the Fae, or the demi-Fae.

One glance at the legendary sword of truth that hung on the wall behind her, then at the sarcophagi, then back at her, had it all clicking in Celaena's mind.

"Hello, child," Elena Galathynius Havilliard said, voice as liquid as moonlight, blue eyes surveying Celaena with all the sadness of their fallen kingdom.

* * *

 **I'm trying to make my chapters longer, so the updates might be less frequent. In the meantime, review? I love hearing your thoughts.**


	6. Long Lost Lovers

**So, it's been a while, and I'm sorry about that. At the very least, I'll try to update once a month, but I'll aim for once every one or two weeks.**

 **KateWinters97: Thanks for your review! And no, Celaena isn't going to be the King's Champion in this one, but she'll find other ways to snoop about the castle... ;)**

 **Roza Chameleon Redbird: Thanks for your review! And thank you! I'm glad you're enjoying it.**

 **PerfectPeanuts: Thanks for your review! Those two words meant so much to me :)**

 **Too Wicked For this World: Thanks you! I tried to update as fast as possible! And I love your username.**

 **cassianaswindell123: Thank you! And sorry, but no; I decided it would be faster if I just looked through the chapters on my own. Thank you for offering, though!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Throne of Glass. Probably a good thing, because it wouldn't be half as good as Sarah J. Maas made it if I did.**

* * *

Celaena instinctively reached for her daggers - usually sheathed at her waist - before she realised that for one thing, this was a dream, for another, she was a prisoner, and consequently, had no weapons on her.

Elena hadn't flinched at her fear, continuing to smile that painfully, _pityingly_ kind smile. Celaena wanted to bash her face in, if only so she would stop looking at her like she was so. . . broken.

"What do you want?" Celaena asked, and dream or no, she started prowling backwards, making sure the two sarcophagi were between her and the ancient princess. Glancing down now, she noted the elegant fall of silver hair on the likeness of the queen, and the pointed ears of the Fae; it was Elena. Which meant. . . Celaena's eyes trailed over to the other sarcophagus. Then that must be Gavin, her human mate, with whom she'd defeated the Dark King Erawan. "Who are you?"

Elena's gaze was steady, but the edges of her flickered with indiscretion, and her eyes flicked to Gavin's sarcophagus as well. There was a look of alarm to them. "Don't waste time on questions you know the answer to," was the curt reply. "I don't have much time, thanks to your wandering. They are distracted for now-" Who was distracted? Was Gavin distracting them? "-but not for long. So I say this now." She leapt forward, and seized Aelin's hand. "Everything is fated, and there are no coincidences. You were meant to become an assassin, and go to Endovier, and then come back and become the King's Champion." Her eyes were shadowed. "But the competition comes too early, and so we have to make our own fate. So take this."

She thrust a necklace into Celaena's hands. It was simple, about the size of a coin, with a design of interlocking rings superceded by two overlapping circles. A line bisected it, and a blue stone was set in the centre, like an iris. It seemed to hum when it touched her palms; it's warmth seeped into her indiscreetly.

"It will protect you," Elena continued.

"What is it?" Celaena breathed. A few rustles and warning sounds began to drift towards her on a non-existent wind; the amulet glowed a faint blue.

Elena smiled, a sad, sad smile. " _'It is only with the eye, that one can see rightly_ ,'" she said, though Celaena had no idea what the words meant. As though she _should_ know what the words meant. She flicked her gaze to Damaris, Gavin's famous Sword of Truth that hung on the wall, at it's eye pommel, then back down to the necklace Celaena had slipped on. The metal was cool against her breasts. "Help the captain," she said suddenly, gripping Celaena's forearm. Despite her less-than-solid appearance, her hand was very strong, and very much there. "When he comes to your cause, _help him_. Help him find the evil in this castle, and _destroy_ it."

"The captain? What. . .?" Celaena grimaced as Elena's grip tightened to an almost painful vice. The rustles grew louder, and Celaena thought she heard a howl.

"There's no _time_ ," Elena muttered, then cupped the back of Celaena's neck, and kissed her forehead. "You bear many names, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius," she murmured. "But in the end, you are nameless. And I'm so incredibly sorry about that. But we don't have time for me to explain it now."

There was definitely howling then, coupled with the unmistakeable thud of running feet. Whines and roars whirled around in her ears as Elena used her hold on her wrist to shove her away. " _Run,_ " she said. " _Do not let them find you here_."

Celaena ran, out of the door, ignoring a barked farewell from Mort, down the damp stairs. She ran until her heart was beating so fast she thought it might beat out of her chest, and she keeled to the side, everything going dark.

* * *

"I'm _so_ sorry to hear about Lady Rosamund's untimely death, Your Highness," simpered Kaltain, waving her lace fan. "Such a tragedy it is."

Dorian's hand, poised to lift the crystal glass and tip the contents down his throat, clenched until his tendons were strips of white against the golden skin. He didn't want to be here, dining with his mother's tittering court, but he'd had little choice in the matter. It was this or spend more time with Aedion Ashryver, which in hindsight, might have been a better choice. Both options were aggravating, and risked his newfound. . . _talent,_ being discovered if he became riled, but at least with Aedion there would be fewer witnesses if he did lose control - and the only witness would likely be one already sympathetic to magic. After all, how could he turn in a gifted royal, when his own cousin had been hunted for being exactly the same thing?

He suspected that was wishful thinking towards the end, but it was true: he'd rather than company of a Wolf than these. . . peahens.

And he'd known Kaltain Rompier was a power hungry, gold digging, cold hearted bitch, but he hadn't expected even her to exploit the sudden and heart breaking death of Lady Rosamund, who'd been his greatest love, and had died not two weeks before.

He felt that alien power roil in his gut and he gritted his teeth, willing with an iron fist for it to _stay down_ because if it erupted here, then he would be shipped to the gallows probably even before he came to from blacking out at the sudden loss of energy.

At least, that was what he'd found in the books he'd nicked from the library. The millions of volumes in there provided an excellent place to hide the books about magic he'd coveted recently. It had turned out that one of the librarians had kept them against king's wishes in the case that the powers he knew his family to be generously gifted with ever returned. It had only taken a little cajoling (and borderline blackmail) to get him to hand them over.

But he _had_ gotten a hold on them, and he'd spent hours leafing through the yellow, wrinkled pages, the edges worn sharp and smooth by the hundreds of people who'd thumbed them before him. He'd absorbed every snippet of information he could find that could in anyway help him control his power. But the only thing that he'd come across so far was iron.

Iron could subdue magic. Iron could suppress magic. Iron could eliminate magic.

The only problem was he didn't think it would go unnoticed if he started wearing iron shackles everywhere. Chaol certainly would, in the very least.

So he willed himself to control his emotions, even he gave Kaltain a stiff nod, lips pressed so tightly together they'd gone white.

"If you ever feel the need to. . . _talk_ about her," Kaltain added. She leaned forward, and placed her hand onto his shoulder. Her nails were long and they dug into his shoulder through his silk shirt. Whatever gods-awful perfume she had on wasn't enough to cover the lingering scent of opium, and Dorian fought the urge to gag. "I am here. I'll always be here for you to talk to. I know that one's childhood sweetheart can be difficult to get over."

As though Rosamund was just that: an infatuation, a crush. He gritted his teeth harder, until his jaw ached. His hands had started trembling when the second woman spoke.

"That's _so_ sweet, Kaltain," Dorian's mother butted in. A woman not quite out of her prime, she had silver-streaked auburn hair, a face subtly pinched with the beginnings of wrinkles, and a faintly youthful glow, even if her green eyes glinted dully. "It's such a shame about your engagement to Duke Perrington. You would have made a fine queen."

Kaltain swallowed, and her dark-eyed gaze flicked to Dorian for an instant, before they were fixed adoringly on Queen Georgina, like they'd never moved to begin with. "Actually, Your Highness," she began, but she was cut off by the guards that swarmed into the room suddenly.

Several people screamed. Dorian got to his feet, and his mother did the same. He marched up to the nearest guard, recognising him as one of Chaol's, and demanded, "What is the meaning of this?"

The guard looked like he was about to brush past, then realised who it was, and bowed. "Your Highness," he intoned. "We are under orders to arrest Lady Kaltain Rompier. We received a tip from a reliable source that she was involved in the poisoning and subsequent murder of Lady Rosamund."

Dorian froze. His heart was beating one name through his veins.

 _Rosamund Rosamund Rosamund Rosamund Rosamund._

He turned to look at Kaltain. Her face was bloodless under the rouge on her cheeks, and her lips were beige. Her eyes had widened until they resembled two endless pits of darkness.

That creature inside him was writhing, wanting to be free from his iron grip on it, wanting to see what all the fuss was about. It began gnawing at his grip, loosening it, and he had to take several even breaths to reassert his control over himself.

When he spoke, his voice was deadly.

"You killed her?"

Kaltain shook her head frantically, taking a step back as the guards approached. Eventually her back collided with the queen's throne, and she could go no further. "No!" She shrieked, and her voice was a high pitched dagger in his ears. "I didn't! I swear I didn't!"

"Our source insists you did." The guard said in monotone voice. "Please, Miss Rompier. His Grace insists-"

"Ha!" She screeched, jabbing her finger at her. She shook her head so hard her elegantly coiled hair fell from its up-do, spilling round her face like tangled waves of ink. "Perrington told you, did he?" She was shaking all over; she looked positively demonic. "He's a liar! He's a rutting liar! He provided the hemlock!"

Everyone froze.

Kaltain gulped.

There was nothing more incriminating for her to say.

As if realising the game was up, she didn't object as two guards seized her and dragged her down to the dungeons.

* * *

Kaltain was seething.

That backstabber! Perrington had told her the poison would be untraceable. He'd told her there was no way she - no way _they_ \- would get caught. He'd told her that once Lady Rosamund - a lazy, simpering girl, in no was fit to be queen - married Dorian, she would have brought the empire to ruin, and that he wholeheartedly believed she needed to be eliminated.

And then he goes and rats her out to the King? What sort of monster did that?

The guards' hands were cold, even through the thin sleeves of her white dress. Dorian liked white, she reminisced fondly, then the thought turned bitter. It didn't matter now whether or not he thought her attractive in white; he surely hated her for her philanthropic actions. He should be thanking her for ridding him of that horrible girl! But no; instead all she got was anger and betrayal, merely because he couldn't see past his childish infatuation to understand the enormity of the favour she'd done her nation.

"Please," she croaked; her voice had been all but scraped raw by her screaming upstairs. "Please. It wasn't me."

She knew the words were worthless, but that didn't stop her from saying them, as they descended into the mouldy darkness of the palace dungeons. Kaltain heard a drip of water, and shivered as it hit her between her shoulder blades.

The guard only looked down at her in disgust. "I have no time for the lies of a murderer." He shoved a rusted key into a door, and the barred door swung open with a screech. The threw her in; she grazed her elbow as she fell and banged it off the wall. She lunged the guards leg as he walked away; he cried out in pain - agony - when she fastened her hands round his ankle. He staggered back, then shot a kick at her, and sneered. "You can stay down here with the other woman like you and rot."

The retreating footsteps were loud in Kaltain's ears; she felt one of her regular headaches begin to pound behind her eyes.

But the words _the other woman like you_ rang in her mind, and she looked up, at the cell across from her, and caught the glint of dimly filtered light off of gold hair, matted with blood and dirt, but gold all the same. Her limbs, scantily covered by a prisoner's shift, were adorned with scars like grotesque bracelets. She looked beaten and bruised and abused to within an inch of her life, but her turquoise eyes were bright with a predatory gleam as she took in the fine, now muddied dress, and Kaltain's unbound hair.

"Murderer, eh?" The woman said. No, not a woman, Kaltain realised and she scrutinised her. Barely a few months past seventeen. A girl. "What did you do, stab someone to death with one of your hairpins? Is that why they confiscated them?"

"Nothing so inelegant as that!" She defended. "I used hemlock." The girl snorted, a mocking smile playing about her lips. Kaltain felt her anger rise. "I was only trying to rescue my country from a frightful woman who had her claws in the Crown Prince." The girl lifted her hand and inspected her own nails, then chuckled. They were broken and scratched from her time in captivity; they did indeed resemble claws.

"Don't give me that," Kaltain said haughtily. "The guard said you were a murderer?"

She chuckled again. "I'm an assassin, actually."

Kaltain's saliva dried in her throat. How many female assassins had she heard of? _This can't be. . ._

The girl got to her feet, and made a mock bow. "Celaena Sardothien, at your service."

* * *

"You make an interesting point," the King of Adarlan said.

Aedion restrained the urge to curl his hands into fists. He sat at the council table with the rest of the snivelling councilmen, listening to Duke Perrington's ideas for what he thought they should do with the assassin currently residing in the dungeons. He resisted the urge to punch the man.

He had a fool proof - not that he was calling Aelin a fool - plan to get his cousin out of the sentence in Endovier. And having this idiot butt in to meddle with the plans of what the King did with Aelin, was very much not appreciated.

"If we keep Celaena Sardothien in the dungeons until Yulemas, we could use her after the last Test for the Champions. When we reach a winner, we can have them face off against her to prove their worth against someone who the people know is a formidable opponent. Make a public event of it. Her time in the dungeons will have weakened her, so I have no doubt that whoever's chosen would best her with ease. A public execution, of sorts. And the defeat would be a message, loud and clear, to all the assassins and thieves and criminals of Erilea: The King's Champion is better than the best of you." He gestured with his hands like he could picture it. "It would surely dissuade any of the larger criminals from performing crimes dire enough for Your Majesty to get involved in."

"This is ridiculous!" The Crown Prince shouted suddenly, standing up. "She's a _young_ _girl_."

The King turned to his heir. "How would this factor affect anything?" He asked, politely, but there was warning brewing behind his eyes.

The Prince didn't flinch from it. "Because," he said, and even Aedion had to admit he was impressed with the man's quick thinking. It was obvious that this wasn't the problem he had with the arrangements, but he voiced it anyway. "The people will be shocked to find that Adarlan's Assassin is a teenage girl. It will cause the opposite of the affect Perrington - His Grace - is looking for; they'll feel that we've pulled some sort of stunt, and that it means nothing that the Champion had defeated a child."

The King of Adarlan nodded, looking thoughtful. "I will consider both of your points," was all he said. "You are all dismissed."

Aedion was vaguely aware of Dorian storming out, but he was too busy hurrying out himself, to inform Aelin of the change of plan, and to pray that the King didn't take Perrington's ideas on.

The prison wagons were easy to break a person out of. The royal dungeons, however, were not.

* * *

As she made the bow, the pendant Elena had given her almost slipped from beneath her shift, and Celaena gritted her teeth against the cold of the metal against her breasts as she sat back down. She'd woken from the dream with it on; she didn't know how, but she had.

The poor woman's face had gone the colour of her dress (or the colour her dress had been, before it had graced the floor and become spotted with brown and red) and her lips trembled slightly. She pressed them together, until they too grew white. Celaena scoffed inwardly. What did the coward think she could do to her?

"Now," she said. "You know my name, I think it's only fair I know yours."

Apparently, the woman wasn't so petrified she couldn't speak. She gasped out with a small voice, "Kaltain Rompier." She shivered, and Celaena's eyes narrowed. She wasn't _that_ scared was she? Now that would just be ridiculous.

But no; she wasn't shivering from fear, Celaena realised as another chilly breeze sliced through the air, and Kaltain was racked with a shudder. The girl clutched at her head with a whimper, and murmured, almost indistinguishably, "Wings. Make it stop."

Celaena didn't think as she picked up the cloak Aedion had managed to smuggle her in his last visit, screwed it up into a loosed ball, and tossed it across, into Kaltain's cell.

The woman flinched as it landed, but once she'd had the chance to study it, her brows creased in confusion, she looked up at Celaena. She only clipped out, "For the cold," before very pointedly turning away, and becoming silent.

* * *

 **I created a Community called The Very Best Throne of Glass Fanfictions. If anyone has any suggestions for stories, or would like to be added in as one of the staff and add them yourself, then either say so in the reviews or PM me, and I'll get back to you on that.**

 **So... what did you think of this chapter? Review?**


	7. Long Lost Ladies

**I'm so, so sorry for how long it's been. I just needed some time to work out the plotline, and how I'm going to write a fic that encompasses the books in much fewer words.**

 *****IMPORTANT NOTE***: I will not update this story until I've finished my TMI fanfics. That shouldn't be anytime after February, but just as a forewarning. No updates for a while.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own ToG, and I would never claim to have the talent SJM has in creating it.**

* * *

Dorian stormed out of the council room the moment they were dismissed, his breath a rasp of sandpaper against the rapid beat of his heart.

What they were planning to do to the assassin, who was merely a _girl_ -

He made it all of two steps before he punched a wall, and swore profusely at the crack that emanated from his hand. He blinked his stinging tears out of his eyes, and to dissipate any lingering traces of anger, punched it again.

It didn't work, other than to cause more blood to flow down his knuckles, and to cause him to swear harder.

What monsters were they what monsters were they what monsters were they-

Another crack, like a cannon firing, and Dorian didn't have a moment to spare as the glass of the window exploded inwards, deadly chunks the size of his thumb flying around the corridor. He flinched and flung his hands up to cover his face even as the whirlwind stopped, and the shards fell to the ground, and shattered.

Panting, Dorian surveyed the wreckage. Glass that had been crushed to dust lay scattered on the floor, like an array of fallen stars.

But he hadn't so much as touched the window.

His heart pounded like the footfalls of some great beast, and the word hounded him even as he raced through the corridors, away from the glittering debris, away from the truth.

 _Magic._

He almost vomited again when the word reverberated in his skull, but he kept steady, kept running, the familiar corridors blurring around him until he was outside the one place he knew he could rely on to deliver support when he needed it.

Chaol jumped from where he appeared to have been drifting asleep when Dorian flew through the door to his chambers, and slammed it behind him, but one look at the wild terror in his friend's eyes, and he was rising from his chair, the written accounts he'd been clutching scattering onto his desk. "Dorian," he said slowly, like he might to a spooked animal. "What happened?"

And indeed, Dorian was acting purely on instinct as he caught at Chaol's hand and dragged him to the adjoining bedroom, where he was confident they would not be overheard.

Dorian's voice cracked as he said, "There's something I have to tell you."

* * *

When Aedion next stormed down into the dungeons, he was surprised by what he found.

His cousin, rather than sitting in the corner brooding as he'd come to expect her to, was on her knees near the bars, and there was an actual smile on her face as she turned to the side to stifle a snort of- By the Wyrd, was that _laughter_? She shivered slightly, and Aedion instantly wondered where the cloak he'd given her was. After a quick inspection, he noted it was in the cell opposite with. . . Kaltain Rompier. What was _she_ doing down here? And why had Aelin given her the cloak?

Aelin laughed again, and Aedion's attention snapped to the person she was talking to. Princess Nehemia.

The Eyllwe princess had a sort of light to her face that Aedion hadn't seen when she was surrounded by the court. They exchanged quips and comments in flawless Eyllwe - Gods, Aelin was almost fluent. How had she learned it these past few years, living in Rifthold? But he couldn't bring himself to resent his lack of knowledge, not as he saw her sitting there, limned with the sunlight filtering through the windows, living and breathing and _smiling_. Nehemia's guards didn't look at all unnerved by their princess's proximity to an assassin; what had Nehemia told them? What had _Aelin_ told them?

The look Kaltain Rompier threw the two girls was bitter and. . . wistful. There was even a little envy in that gaze.

Struck dumb by the sight for a moment, Aedion's strong stride faltered for an instant. It was brief, and over as soon as it started, but it was enough for Aelin to note the echoes that rebounded off of the dungeons' thick walls, and stiffen, turning to snap something half-heartedly at the guards she thought were approaching.

Her lithe frame relaxed when she saw it was just him, and she gave him a small smile. It was a sliver of happiness compared to what she'd shown Nehemia, but it was enough to make him smile back. The fact that she lived to bequeath him that smile was enough.

He walked the rest of the way until he was sitting directly in front of Kaltain from where she seemed inclined to eavesdrop on their conversation. With his back planted firmly towards the woman, and his broad shoulders blocking her view of Aelin, he hoped that she hadn't glimpsed enough in the shadows of the cells to distinguish the damning similarities between himself and his cousin.

He kneeled in front of Aelin, and glanced at the two princesses when they cast him amused looks. He raised an eyebrow at Nehemia, who, surprisingly enough, didn't look particularly angry at the lack of respect, and instead she gave him a small smile, and rose from her crouch, moving to exit the dungeons. Whilst she was on the bottom step, she paused briefly to turn and say sweetly, "General?"

He looked up. She smiled at him.

"I hope to see you at the meeting on Friday," she said carefully, eyes flashing with a hidden message. "I'm sure your input will be greatly valued about that old derelict warehouse in the slums they're planning on renovating." Then she was gone.

Aedion felt the meaning behind her words click, and allowed himself to grin for a moment, before he tucked the knowledge away. He turned back to his cousin, who hadn't bothered to contain her smirk, even if it seemed. . . hollow. Without true depth of emotion.

He made sure to wipe it away though, by the utter gravity of his next few words. "I have a plan to get you out of here."

Aelin sat back, and furrowed her brows, biting her lip slightly. "Let's hear it then," she said. He cast a pointed glance at Kaltain, but she'd fallen asleep in the hay at the back of her cell, and was snoring quietly.

So he began to explain.

* * *

Chaol had always hated going on hunts with the Adarlanian nobles. Not only did the horses cause an almighty racket as they charged through the trees, hence scaring away most of the game, but when the hounds ran ahead through the undergrowth, scattering what scarce birds had the idiocy to remain, the lords couldn't hit a thing. They spent too much time gossiping about each other, and eyeing each others' horses, and when the birds flew, they would shoot at them over enthusiastically, with great flailing gestures, and miss by miles.

Usually, Chaol would discreetly kill the odd bird, then pretend that one of them had done it, but today the king had invited Aedion Ashryver to ride with them, and the general kept his horse uncomfortably close to Chaol's, their legs occasionally brushing, and kept up a running commentary about this and that.

"So, I hear that Celaena Sardothien's finally getting shipped to Endovier tomorrow." Aedion commented offhandedly, making Chaol freeze in his place. He cast a terrified glance ahead, where Dorian was riding next to his father, but the captain and the general had fallen behind the rest of the royal party, and there was no one close enough to hear as Aedion - yet again - toed the line between treason and brash, bold words. He jerked his chin at the party ahead. Chaol followed his gaze, unwillingly, to see his father amongst the party, glancing back to give a smug, satisfied smile. "How long did it take them to come to that conclusion?"

"His Majesty's mind was already made up," Chaol said monotonously. "It was just a few other ideas he wanted to consider before he actually had her sent away."

Aedion snorted. "Some would say that uncertainty isn't exactly a desirable trait in a monarch. Makes them look weak." He eyed a sparrow who lingered on the edge of a branch, and shot at it. The tiny corpse thudded to the ground, but Aedion made no move to pick it up.

Chaol responded quietly, "Some people might say it's unwise to talk badly the man who conquered the eastern half of this continent." He eyed Aedion coolly, and to his surprise, the general laughed.

"You're a good sparring partner, captain." He wasn't sure if that was an insult or not. "But I'm curious as to who His Most Esteemed Majesty will choose to accompany the prison wagon on its way there. You can't tell me you're going to let some trembling newbies handle Adarlan's Assassin?"

"Of course not." Where were these questions heading? Ahead, Chaol saw Dorian glance back at them, frowning at how far behind they were. Oh gods. If Dorian came back here, and Aedion managed to antagonise him enough, and Dorian lost control of his magic- "Why?" He asked, keeping his tone level so it didn't reveal any of the coursing fear he felt.

Aedion shrugged, and he was such a massive man that it was like a small mountain rolling under an earthquake. "Is it a crime to want the most notorious criminal in Rifthold to remain behind bars?" He clapped Chaol on the shoulder. "I'm sure you'll ask for my opinion when the time comes for which guards to leave behind to keep an eye on that lady who got locked up for murder - Kaltain Rompier. I always knew she was a sneaky one." The world went quiet for an instant as Aedion leaned in to whisper in his ear, and suddenly there was no warmth, nothing jovial, to his tone. Just icy threats. "By the way, you might want to look into who created such a mess in the queen's favourite rose garden the other day. Random winds blowing out of nowhere to wreck a single lane? Sounds suspicious if you ask me."

With that, Aedion fixed the devil-may-care grin back on his face, clapped Chaol on the shoulder once more, then ridden off.

Chaol's horse stopped walking.

Oh gods oh gods oh gods-

 _Aedion knew Dorian had magic._

Oh gods.

And Aedion had as good as threatened to spill on the two of them if they didn't do as he asked.

Chaol felt bile rise to his throat, and quickly and quietly emptied his stomach in the nearby bushes. When Dorian, who'd dropped behind to check on him, asked what was up, he simply said he'd eaten too much for breakfast.

* * *

"You and the general look extremely similar," Kaltain said slyly from where she was still nestled amongst the hay.

How the woman had known she was awake, Celaena didn't know. But she groaned and openly her eyes to glare at the courtier, and spat, "What of it?"

There was a heavy pause, then Kaltain said, a little wistfully, "You're truly going to try to take down Adarlan? The king? Perrington?"

A shudder racked Celaena's frame. So she hadn't been asleep whilst they'd been deliberating. . .

"Yes."

Kaltain's dark eyes seemed to glow for an instant. "In order for you to get out unnoticed," she began carefully, "You'll need someone to go to Endovier in your place. So that when the overseer doesn't receive a young woman, he doesn't raise the alarm and alert all of Rifthold you've escaped." A brittle laugh. "And if that happens. . . you're Celaena Sardothien. The world will start a manhunt."

Begrudgingly curious, Celaena sat forward. "What of it? What are you getting at?" Then it hit her, and she amended her question to, "What do you want in return?"

Kaltain smiled, and there was no joy in it. "I get to keep the cloak," she bartered. Celaena nodded; it was a small price to pay for freedom. Freedom and. . . revenge. "And I want your solemn oath."

"What would you want me to swear to do?"

The lady's face was suddenly paler, the darkness around her suddenly darker. The picture was an art of light and shadows. Lady of Shadows. It was a fitting name for Kaltain somehow.

Here they were, two sorry souls: the Lady and the Queen of Shadows. The two girls who had been spat on and cast aside by the very court residing above them in the glass castle. The two girls with the wicked, wicked smiles, who gifted death with their sleight of hand.

Holding court in the darkness, and needing no fire to guide them.

Kaltain's voice was full of menace and the promise of pain as she said, "To punish them all."

Celaena felt a smile tug at her lips in response.


End file.
